Chapter 26
Holy Shit.
The shock of seeing Riggs and Onyx was one thing, but to see him, the man who single-handedly is making my nights worse just from the memory of his voice alone, is another.
I had no expectation of seeing Stone again.
He rejected me and I thought that was it.
Now here he is in all his glory. Shirtless, no less.
I’ve never seen him bare-chested before.
The tattoos. The divots in his waist. The thick muscles.
Holy fuckers. There is smooth hair on his chest. Right in the middle.
Help me, God. Corded muscles in his abs.
The tattoos right above the waistband of his jeans buckle are dark, and I realize he might have more tattoos below. On his dick?
Riggs’s voice interrupts my thoughts as he starts talking in some vague code.
Shipments? Players? What the hell is going on?
I felt the moment the energy changed, and all three men perked up.
I want to ask what is going on, but the look Stone gives me keeps me quiet.
And I should listen to him, because he’s not my business. Not him, and not his tattoo shop.
Yeah, I’m being royally fucked over my Fate because this man and his gorgeous friends now share the same real estate. With that reminder, I turn to Stone, determined to set the tone between us.
“Is this your shop?”
“Why?” He watches me in that slow way of his that I thought was attraction, but he set me straight real quick. It’s his way of letting me know that he finds me amusing and annoying.
“Because your music is disturbing the entire neighborhood.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, my gallery is next door, and it’s making it hard to things done.”
“And just what is it that you need to get done, Countess?”
“Countess? Don’t call me that.”
“Why?”
Gritting my teeth at the way he ignores my request, I narrow my eyes. I could argue with him, but what would be the point? He’s a rude asshole who loves pushing my buttons. “Because my name is Camryn.”
“What things?”
Narrowing my eyes, I don’t know why I’m bothering to explain myself. He’s the rudest, moodiest bastard I’ve ever met, next to my father. Jesus, now I’m comparing the man I want to fuck with my father. It might be time to go. “Wall painting.”
“You need me to help? I am good with my hands.” Riggs laughs, winking at me while leaning on the reception counter.
I return his laugh because the man is a flirt, and everything with him is light and teasing. I can see why Jacks is so caught up in him. “Just turn the music down, Riggs.”
“But seriously. I can help if you need to get to some hard to reach places.”
“The shipment, Riggs,” Stone barks, and I glance at him, but he’s looking at Riggs like he wants to kill him.
“Bye, Riggs. Onyx. Thank you for turning down the music.”
“Bye, Camryn Park. It was good seeing you.” Riggs winks and heads back down the hallway.
I know I’m being a brat by not offering Stone the same goodbye, but fuck it. He wants to reject me and treat me like a little girl. I’ll be a brat. Ignoring the sexy dickface, I march out of their door and back into my studio.
Seeing the wide open space and empty walls soothes my mood. It’s going to take me hours to paint the walls, and my hands will probably fall off, but it will be worth it.
I head to the far side of the room, where I have my paint buckets, rollers, and drop clothes.
I crack the lid, hyped to see the midnight blue color.
One entire wall will be a dark hue, and all the others will be white.
I’m hoping to find a talented muralist to create a truly amazing feature on the wall.
Each year, I plan on rotating out the mural.
“When do you open?”
Spinning around so fast that I almost stumble, paint splatters fly from the lid, hitting the wooden floor.
Shit. I see Stone leaning against the wall inside my door that I must have forgotten to lock.
He now has on a shirt, and it’s just as sexy as it was when he was bare-chested and sleep-mused.
His jaw still sports that deep, dark shadow of stubble, and even the gray hair at his temples is attractive.
I can also smell whatever cologne he’s wearing.
It’s smoky and delicious. Asshole. “You’re trespassing. ”
“You invited me.”
“The hell I did.” I shake my head, returning the paint can lid.
“I’m going to open my studio and gallery. You should stop by.” His voice rises an octave, becoming breathy. “Sound familiar?”
Instantly, I remember. It was the night I stood in front of him, while he sat on his bike, my legs still shaking from the vibration of the engine, and my nipples tingling from being pressed into his back.
I invited him before I issued my invitation, not wanting him to leave.
Impressed and in awe of him and his power, the way he commanded the bike as we drove on the highway.
Then I asked him up, and he was a complete asshole.
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
Before you rejected me. “Was there something you wanted?”
He doesn’t respond, and the air between us feels heavy. That damn penetrating stare is back. “Riggs said you need help.”
The only thing I need from you is an orgasm, but that’s not going to happen. “Jace will give me a hand if I need it.”
“It stinks in here.”
My jaw is starting to ache. “I’m aware of the smell. It’s nothing that a good cleaning and paint won’t fix.”
He steps closer, and my body forgets what my mind cautioned me against earlier.
To stay away from him. I can detect the smoke and something sweet.
It’s a heady mix. He must have smoked a cigarette before he came over.
It’s the same smell that lingered on his jacket that is still hanging in my closet.
I shouldn’t waste his offer, but I have my pride, and he’s making it hard for me to downplay how his closeness affects me. Yeah, the faster I get him out of here, the better.
The stack of shelves I put together last night took me hours, but doing it alone, I felt a sense of accomplishment that I had never experienced before. They were pretty light when the pieces were separated, but once they were combined, they weighed a ton.
I may break my back, but I refuse to ask for his help. I meant what I said. I’m done putting myself out there. The sooner I start keeping my distance from him, the better.
“I have a lot of work to do. See you around.” I turn back to the paint can, ignoring him while I vigorously mix the blue-black paint.
He doesn’t want you.
He’s your brother’s friend.
Each sentence becomes a chant. Cleaning off the wooden stick, I carefully pour the paint into the tray, hating how my hands shake.
I can feel him behind, but I won’t turn around.
I set down the can and pick up my paintbrush.
When the door shuts, I drop my tense shoulders and resolutely continue working.